


Reflections

by shihadchick



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-08-08
Updated: 2002-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:27:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Much thanks to Joy for giving me the bunny, to Mandi, Lacy and Joy for telling me to post what really was just a quick snippet to cheer people up by the old 'See two cute people. See two cute people in love. Awww, cute people in love' expedient.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to Joy for giving me the bunny, to Mandi, Lacy and Joy for telling me to post what really was just a quick snippet to cheer people up by the old 'See two cute people. See two cute people in love. Awww, cute people in love' expedient.

_I hate photographs. I hate being in them._

 _Unfortunately, being the person I am means I'm forced into a fair few more than your ordinary camera-shy person. It's put up or shut up, and to a certain extent, my chosen career depends on it. Even now. So I put up. I usually shut up, although God  
knows I've bitched and moaned a lot over the years._

 _Of course, the other benefit to spending more than half your life with the same people is that you end up knowing each other so well. Like a partner, a spouse, better than yourself, sometimes. Did I say that was a benefit? Maybe it's a curse, sometimes. But you know what buttons to push when you want to annoy someone. You get to tell when someone is hurting, get to know how you can help them - if at all. But I digress. Photographs. Hate the fuckers._

 _Ever notice I tend to look the same in most photos?_

 _And no, I don't mean the fact that I haven't changed my haircut in fifteen years or more. ( I have too, so shut up, Bono.)_

 _It's the expression, isn't it?_

 _And the pose._

 _Scowling - or trying to, feet slightly apart, hands in my pockets._

 _I've lost count of the number of photographers who've tried to get me do stand another way. Pleaded, begged, threatened (although not many have tried that... we are the biggest band in the world, are we not? And that does give one some room to  
dig in one's heels.). Anton, not a slow learner, gave up after about an hour. The magazine industry tends to be a bit pickier. Or a bit more hard-headed. I can respect that stubbornness, although, really, anyone who tries to out-glare me is in for a nasty suprise, I'll tell you._

 _It's the only thing that keeps me there, you know. The only thing that keeps me smiling, gets me to loosen up and enjoy the shoots. To clown around with the others when they start messing around (which they usually do). The only other thing that  
persuades me I have to do this, I should do this, for the fans if not myself._

 _Standing there, hands in my pockets, running my fingers over and over the smooth surface of an ordinary Irish river stone. It could come from anywhere. Anywhere in the country, anywhere in the world, really. Utterly ubiquitous. Just a plain moss  
coloured hunk of rock, polished smooth by the steady dance of water over it for years beyond measure._

"Here, look, this one looks like your liver!" The tall man stooped in the middle of the stream stands up, laughing, tiny pebbles and larger rocks streaming between his open fingers, as he turns and offers the stone to his companion for inspection.

"No, Sparks, it looks like yours. Horribly abused." He laughs, smiles, agreeing to the whimsy, brush a finger idly over the still-wet rock, pretending not to notice as his finger continues upward, running over a steady palm, up to the wrist, hovering  
over the pulse that beats steady there, in time with the water rushing over the rocks.

"C'mon, let's get out of here, my feet are bloody freezing." Both men - barely older than boys, if truth is told - look down at the reminder, at feet slowly turning cyanotic blue beneath hastily rolled up jeans, at the dark spots on the fabric where a careless step has splashed up and wet the denim. Wading had been an idle amusement, a passing fancy, something to reconnect with the real world and to remember what it was like. To be boys again for a moment outside time, to forget age  
and responsibilities and all that went with them. Not that either would admit that, of course. Just a silly bet, was what they would call it, too mature to admit the need for juvenile distraction.

They splash together out of the water, fingers curled together, continuing their usual easy chatter, break apart long enough to replace socks and shoes and stand uncomfortably as the cold and damp seep through them at least. Then the elder turns  
to his friend, takes his hand once more. The blond boy notices he's still holding the stone, frowns as his hand is taken once more, and the stone dropped into it, that same strong callused hand curving his fingers around it, until he's clutching it tightly, fist wrapped inside his friend's.

"Adam-?" He sounds confused now, little-boy-lost, not sure what to make of this. And Adam moves closer, wind ruffling his hair, putting goosebumps along both of their exposed arms, and bends down and presses his lips to Larry's gently. It's not the  
first time, nor is it the last. It just is. And this time, it's beautiful. Passion without heat, the sweeping touch of waves on the shore; powerful, thrilling, endless.

"Keep it," says Adam, voice soft and expression softer. "Remember. Much friendlier than a rabbit's foot as good luck charms go, eh?"

And Larry smiles and slips the stone into his pocket and they wander back to their homes.

\-------

 _ten, fifteen, twenty years later, I stand here and smile pretty for the cameras and finger that ordinary little stone._

 _I know where it's from._

 _And that's what's important._


End file.
